


polyrhythm

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: Sportsfest 2018 [15]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Multiverses AU, Sportsfest 2018, multiple timelines AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: It occurs to Yaku that this is as close as they’ll ever get to something they could calltheir song, a refrain that comes up when they are fraying.This repeating polyrhythm / That recoil is like a lie.Kuroo and Yaku at the moment their paths cross, in the wrong universe.





	polyrhythm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sportsfest 2018 Bonus Round 1: Time and Place | [originally posted here](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/7464.html?thread=893224#cmt893224)
> 
> The song in title/referenced in fic is Perfume's "Polyrhythm".

In this universe, he’s the tall boy in ripped jeans who takes Yaku’s hand over the bar counter and and pretends to kiss his fingertips, except he’s never been able to do something like that without ruining it somehow. This time, he leans too far and nearly knocks over the Shirley Temple between them.

Yaku frowns. “You would never step out of the house in ripped jeans. Did you fall on the way here?”

“How did you know?” Kuroo asks, squinting suspiciously at him.

“Lucky guess,” says Yaku, sticks an umbrella into the cocktail and slides it over. The ice clinks. As Kuroo takes a sip, Yaku turns around and starts washing his hands.

“How long do you think we have this time?”

Kuroo’s question is casual. He is also terrible at casual. He is, in general, terrible at pretending anything.

Yaku shrugs. “I’m here all night, unless you want to take over my shift. By the way, I have something to tell you.”

Kuroo’s silent, uncharacteristically so. When Yaku turns back to look for him, he’s already vanished, along with his drink. He hasn’t even had the courtesy to leave the glass behind.

_That fucker,_ thinks Yaku, and looks at his watch. Two minutes. That’s a new low.

The DJ’s playing a techno remix of a Perfume song, one they argued about once. It had been a trivial argument to do with the PV that ended with them taking it to the arcade, where halfway through duking it out on _Dance Dance Revolution_ , another tear in their fabric had ripped them apart and they’d never got to finish that match. It occurs to Yaku that this is as close as they’ll ever get to something they could call _their song_ , a refrain that comes up when they are fraying. _This repeating polyrhythm / That recoil is like a lie_.

Yaku leans against the countertop, crosses his arms and stares at the pulsing lights on the ceiling, like so many stars in this strange sky of theirs. Behind him, there’s a dancefloor where, once, Kuroo had stepped on his feet and walked on without noticing him. In another time, he had been leading a girl in a slow dance. Later, Yaku learned that girl was his sister, and marvelled that he had never known Kuroo had a sister, that there were universes of things he did not know about Kuroo Tetsurou.

“Hey,” he mutters. “Since you left so rudely… if you’re listening, somewhere out there, I’m leaving this place. I handed in my notice today.”

He isn’t romantic enough to tell, for sure, if there’s a sudden warmth in the air of the club, Kuroo twining a phantom hand round the back of his neck for a second. All he knows is the beat of the music, the heady haze of cigarette smoke and the itch on the tip of his tongue to keep talking, to tell Kuroo where he’s going next. He presses his lips together and smiles. Kuroo isn’t the only one who can be annoying.

“Maybe next time you’ll find me in the right universe,” Yaku murmurs, and goes back to cleaning the counter.

On the other side of town, a cleaner at a bus stop finds an empty cocktail glass on a bench. There’s a boy walking away with a paper umbrella in his fingers, headphones in his ears and a grin on his face that tastes of flowers and grenadine.


End file.
